


On the Edge of the Woods

by draculard



Category: The Witch (2016)
Genre: Bestiality, Dark Initiation, F/M, Magical Corruption, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Sibling Incest, Twincest, Unsafe Sex, Witchcraft, satanic rituals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 11:52:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18520972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: The devil lives and dies on the lips of a witch.





	On the Edge of the Woods

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MiriamKenneath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiriamKenneath/gifts).



The devil lives and dies on the lips of a witch. And children make the comeliest witches; they hold more malice and rage than any grown being. From his pen in the yard, he watches the little twins torment a captured chipmunk with burning sticks from the fire, watches them steal kisses from each other when their parents aren’t looking, and he knows they’re ripe for the taking.

His yellow eyes can see through walls. He’s seen the twins in their bed with the girl’s petticoats pushed up to her hips. He’s seen them comparing genitals, both of them small and hairless. The boy strokes his sister’s lips and sees the pleasure it brings her, and then he wants recompense. She takes his little cock in hand and licks it, then blows it dry.

She’s a natural, Black Phillip thinks. They both are.

* * *

The devil knows children. He stole across the ocean as a child on the deck of a ship, clad in rags, unknown and unnoticed by the passengers who towered above him. Children always know each other, but never faces, never names. The infants of the Mayflower knew Black Phillip from his calloused hands. They knew his chapped lips, his dexterity, the games he could play. He shared the ocean wind with them, the wind that rose from the water and tore through their clothes, filled the sails, left them shaking from the chill.

They knew him. And they valued him for many things, but above all else, for his ability to climb higher up the masts than anyone else, for his ability to fall without getting hurt, for the cruel games he invented. Children loved him because it was his small hands that pushed twelve-year-old Giles Eaton into the water, never to be seen again.

He knows what flavor of madness appeals to children. They can hear him speak before he ever opens his mouth. They can see the black fur on his legs and hear the clap of his hooves beneath his clothes.

When he pursues Jonas and Mercy, he is unmatched.

* * *

Mercy doesn’t know the difference between pain and pleasure. Her teeth scrape lines down Jonas’s cock, making him wince and cringe with his hands tangled in her hair. Sometimes Black Phillip hears his high voice cut across the cold autumn air, whining, “Mercy, don’t. It hurts.”

But Jonas doesn’t pull away, ever, so Mercy doesn’t stop. They hide behind the woodstack, where their parents and older siblings can’t see, and Jonas touches Mercy’s skin, soft like his, and searches for clues of himself in his twin sister. He’s merciless, and ignorant, and so is she. Without adult supervision, they’ll do anything to each other.

“Take this,” Jonas whispers one night. He pries a pebble, sharp and rough, from the packed dirt and wipes it on his breeches. Mercy eyes it, her brows screwed together.

“And do what with it?” she asks.

He just looks at her. Maybe he doesn’t have the vocabulary yet to articulate what he wants. Black Phillip could teach them; his eyes glow yellow in the night, trained ever on the twins, even when they’re blocked from view.

 _Stick it in her cunt_ , he tells the boy. _Make her bleed._

So Jonas does. His sister’s hole is unstretched, unprepared, dry. He pushes her skirts out of the way to reach between her legs, and soon both of them are nude beneath the moonlight. Their bodies are well-fed, scrubbed clean by their mother earlier that week, and utterly familiar to each other.

In time, those bodies will change, and they will watch it happen. Black Phillip imparts this knowledge upon them like forbidden fruit. Someday they will bathe together and Mercy will see Jonas’s cock swell flush against his body, larger than it’s ever been before. Someday they will sleep together and Jonas will throw his arm over Mercy and feel her budding breasts, and they will never be the same.

Self-awareness will grab them by the throat when they reach puberty. Wisdom will clog their brains. Their explorations will stop and start in neurotic bursts, tainted forever by the shame of incest and sin.

But those days are a long way off. For now, here in the present, Jonas shoves the filthy little rock inside his sister’s cunt and Mercy lets him, her face pinched as she ponders this new friction, new pain. He strokes between her legs, where she’s smooth and hairless, untouched by age.

Mercy stares into his face and her own pale green eyes stare back. She kisses the curve of her own lips, tastes something so familiar to her it may as well be nothing.

“Does it feel good?” Jonas asks. Mercy considers the question.

“Not yet,” she says. She moves Jonas’s fingers up until he finds her clit, and both their eyes widen when electricity surges through her. “There,” she breathes — unnecessarily, because Jonas always knows what she feels. “Right there.”

They have a child’s disregard for the Bible, and a child’s needy enthusiasm for Biblical things. Bodies, skin, pleasure, pain. The sharp bite of humiliation when Mercy makes him cry, the sting of cold air on their bare legs. They’ve never memorized Scripture, but Black Phillip thinks they know the Bible better than anyone else. They would fit in well among sinful kings and clever witches.

Clever witches, indeed.

* * *

The twins are playing outside when Black Phillip calls to them. They hear his voice as a breath in their ear, winding through bare oak trees to find them on the edge of the forest.

 _Come to me_ , he says. He sees them tripping over molehills as they run, Mercy catching herself on Jonas’s arm. His song is on their lips. Jonas runs with his hands clasped together in front of him, holding something, hiding it from view.

They stumble to a stop before him, their mouths open, breath visible in the cold air. Mercy speaks first, still gasping from the run.

“How now, Black Phillip?”

He looks between them with a smile in his yellow eyes. His gaze settles on Jonas, still cupping his little hands, keeping something trapped.

“Black Phillip,” the boy says, eyes flickering nervously to his sister, “I’ve got something for thee.”

Black Phillip steps forward. Wet, brittle leaves crumble beneath his hooves. Jonas waits until he is near and then slowly, carefully removes one hand from on top of the other. In his palm, a fat, black spider sits, its legs so thick they’re nearly indistinguishable from one another.

Jonas’s eyes meet Black Phillip’s. The goat’s forked tongue emerges from his mouth, pressing the spider wetly against Jonas’s palm. He feels it wiggling there, trying to get away, but it cannot. Black Phillip’s tongue rolls; he catches the spider up and twists it into his mouth, where his lips close around it.

He’s accepted the offering. Jonas’s breath catches and he takes a step back, but then Mercy’s hand finds his, wet from Black Phillip’s saliva, and he stops. It burns where Black Phillip’s tongue touched his skin.

“Teach us the craft, Black Phillip,” Mercy says. “Please, we beg thee.”

“We want to know,” Jonas says. His voice is indistinguishable from Mercy’s. “We’re ready now. Really, we are.”

Black Phillip crushes the spider between his teeth. His tongue swipes away all remnants of the carapace which clings to his gums. The twins are breathing hard, their chests heaving as they stare back at him.

Far be it from Black Phillip to deny them knowledge.

Far be it from Black Phillip to deny them pleasure.

He tells the children to remove their vestments. Their faces light up — enthusiastic, nervous, awed, all at once. It’s Mercy who unbuttons Jonas’s shirt and unties the laces on his breeches. She’s slipping the rough material down to his ankles as he removes her frock and petticoat. When they both stand nude, they giggle — it’s impossible to tell who laughs first — and reach for each other, forgetting Black Phillip is there.

He lets them play. Mercy’s fingers find Jonas’s nipple, erect in the cold wind, and she circles and pinches it. He puts his lips against her neck and a flush suffuses her entire body, and the entire time Black Phillip knows they’re cataloguing every new sensation, every little jolt of pleasure, so they remember how to do it again.

 _Kneel_ , Black Phillip tells the boy, and Jonas falls to his knees. His face is inches away from his sister’s cunt.

 _She likes it when you kiss her there_ , Black Phillip says. He hears the boy’s gasp of a breath a moment before he buries his face between Mercy’s legs. Black Phillip steps forward, unnoticed. If the children inhale the scent of unwashed fur, of his animalistic musk, they give no indication. Mercy’s eyes are closed; Jonas’s eyes are closed. Their faces screw up in concentration, mirror images of each other.

Black Phillip’s tongue darts out; with his chest pressed against Jonas’s bare back, he can lick a path from Mercy’s collarbone down to her undeveloped breasts. Her skin is pebbled with gooseflesh, but Jonas, pinned between their bodies, shudders from the heat of Black Phillip’s fur.

Here, where their bodies combine, there is no sun. The cabin is far away and emptied of its daytime inhabitants; the forest has been stripped of birdsong and the quick click of a squirrel’s claws against the maple trees. When Mercy opens her eyes, they are full of black, viscous fluid, and Black Phillip knows exactly what she sees, exactly what Jonas sees as his mouth works over his sister’s clit, his eyes leaking thick shadows that float on the air.

They see the altar, with its frontispiece coated in dried blood. They see the rent flesh of Black Phillip’s coven and the peculiar tint of the moon on Devil’s Night. And they discover pleasure they’ve never felt before, the burning of their skin under someone else’s touch, the ecstasy of communion.

The black fluid chokes them. Mercy lifts her eyes to the grey sky, seeing nothing, seeing everything. Jonas’s tongue caresses her even as he struggles for breath. He tilts his hips forward, accommodating Black Phillip’s unsheathed cock. If Jonas feels the ripping of his unprepared skin, he doesn’t even bother to flinch.

He bleeds a little. It provides slick passage for Black Phillip, however briefly before it dries. His hooves find Mercy’s shoulders, pushing her onto her back in the dirt, and her hands tangle in Jonas’s hair. She yanks his head up, blindly searching for his mouth. When their lips meet, the shadows leaking from them mingle together — and then their mouths are closed over each other, sealing the darkness inside.

Jonas fumbles for Mercy’s legs, stretching them up above her head. With one hand, Mercy guides Jonas’s cock into her. He grinds against her furiously, slipping out of her almost immediately, not stopping to realign himself. Black Phillip pounds into him with abandon, holding back none of his strength. Each thrust forces Jonas closer to Mercy, their twin cock and cunt seeking one another out, searching for friction, for pain, for that special spark they’ve only found with each other.

Black Phillip’s dark seed is all around them. It surges through their veins, bursting blood vessels, turning their skin the color of bruises, of rotting flesh. It emanates from their pores in wisps like steam over boiling water, leaks from their eyes like floating tears, erupts in great clouds from their mouths when they gasp for air.

When Jonas comes for the first time, grinding against his sister, he bears Black Phillip’s mark on his spine, where the goat’s chest pressed against him.

When Mercy comes for the first time, pinned to the earth by her brother, she bears Black Phillip’s mark on her chest, where his tongue burned her skin.

And when they open their eyes, it’s daytime again, and the forest is filled with singing birds. Smoke flushes from the cabin’s chimney; the clouds overhead spin away, revealing the sun.

Jonas and Mercy lie atop each other, naked in the dirt, their clothes discarded nearby. Their skin is pale and unmarred. Their eyes lock onto each other, the exact same shade of green, untouched by shadows.

Black Phillip is in his pen. He watches Jonas run his hand down Mercy’s ribs, one last tender gesture before he stands and helps her up. They dress quickly, unseen by their parents, unseen by Thomasin and Caleb. When they return to their cabin, singing Black Phillip’s song, there is nothing amiss. Not one strand of hair out of place, not one obscene mark on their flesh.

 _Clever witches,_ Black Phillip thinks.

  



End file.
